


Death as Directed

by Darklady



Series: Losing the Strand [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Daggers, Death, Deceit, Decline to apologize for any of it, Directors, Disturbing Debaucheries, Divorce, Dolly-Molly, Dubious Depictions (history/characters/ events), F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3595899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes can’t believe his eyes. A murder is committed on film, and Lestrade still hasn’t solved the bloody thing.</p><p>A strange script in which Holmes keeps adding characters, Lestrade loses the plot, and Watson is just trying to keep track of the cast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death as Directed

**Author's Note:**

> Authors note: I do not believe in warnings, so I give none here. If you don’t want to read about very VERY bad things happening to mostly-innocent people, some of said things being extremely squicky to modern sensibilities, you should absolutely turn back now. Take the phrase ‘bodice ripper’ seriously. This thing has more triggers than an NRA convention. _(You should also consider why you even started reading a story with ‘death’ as the first word in the title.)_

_Of all the queer cases in my career with Sherlock Holmes, perhaps the most peculiar is the incident I pen now. It was a rare case of innovation, if not in the commission of a crime than at least in its revelation, and of such relevance to later affairs that, were it not for the great names whose repute might be destroyed by these details, I should assuredly remove myself from retirement and once again set my pen to serve the readership of the Strand Magazine. In compromise I have resolved to make my full account here, abridging nothing to the blushes of custom, and thereafter to leave the manuscript with my legal agent until such time as all the parties to this event have passed. I hope that, when that distant day arrives, our small efforts may have so amended society that it will look upon the innocents involved with comfort rather than condemnation._

∏∫Ó¥ÔÏß≤===========

“You are offering to pay me to solve a murder by a man who looked like you, which took place in your room, and you are not worried that I will just tell Inspector Lestrade here ‘take him away’ and be done with it?”

“Even that would be better than now, Mr. Holmes. My wife, you see. She’s a wonderful woman, but a bit strong in her character. If she hears that I had a woman in my room I think I had better have been murdering the girl. As opposed to… you understand.”

“That may be the only detail here I do understand. Lestrade, will you start from the first, and this time make less of a hash of it?”

_If I enter this narrative mid-way, I must beg the indulgence of accuracy, for that is indeed how I entered, and the earlier portion between Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, and the two miserable men standing in our parlor has never been revealed to me._

“Well, Mr. Holmes. It started when…”

“Watson!” Homes spotted my entrance. “I see you return from your medical rounds with your kit still full. Excellent. We may need your professional skills as one of our visitors must – by logic – be raving.”

“I am no alienist, Holmes, and for my part both our visitors seem quite unremarkable.”

That last was true, were the observer to take them one by one. 

The man with the possibly-shrewish wife appeared in his dress and form no different than any of a thousand filling the ranks of the more prosperous professions. He was a blond man, a touch of the Norse in his flat cheeks, slightly taller than average and slim, with a carefully barbered pencil line of moustache. I put his age in the moderate thirties, and once past the red eyes and slight animation of the nerves I counted him as healthy.

The other visitor, the one yet to speak, was of a lower social order. Not poor, perhaps, but by dress and by the rough callous of his hands he had the scent of the workingman about him. His demanding expression, however, lacked any hint of subservience. His dark hair was brushed in a bohemian style. If spotted at the Diogenes I should take him for an artist, perhaps a sculptor. 

“It is Lestrade that you should lock away. The man can not solve a murder when it is presented in front of him.”

The good inspector was indeed red-faced, but I put that more to Sherlock than to stroke.

Pouring a small snifter of brandy, I handed it over. It was medicinal.

“Please, Inspector Lestrade, I must ask your for the details, since I am intrigued at how a murder could happen with police witnesses.”

“As you say, Dr. Watson. It seems that Mr. Issac Canham here is what you might call a movable photographer.”

That gained an eyebrow. I had never contemplated an immovable photographer.

“We within the art prefer cinematographer, Dr. Watson. As a student of the great Georges Méliès I create the new celluloid sequenced photographic images, images taken from and moving exactly as does real life, and then arrange to project them in various theatres.”

“This is profitable?”

I had the recollection of attending a scientific lecture with Holmes some years back in which the presenter had shown a brief anatomical sequence of a trotting horse. It had been impressive, taken as a mechanical development, but hardly entertaining.

“It can be. There is quite a demand in the Vaudeville houses for interludes of historical or dramatic interest.”

“Cept that his latest came up more dramatic than he wanted, which he made our interest.”

“An act of citizenship I now regret.” 

Mr. Canham held out one fat palm, a demand for his own share of the spirits. In the spirit of democracy, I complied.

“I have a new sort of camera”, he explained, “one capable of holding as much as three minutes of film. Last night I took it, along with the other equipment required, down to Cleander High Street , planning to shoot the carriages arriving at the Garlock Theatre.” 

“Frightened the horses something awful. They ought to make a law, if you ask me.”

“Thankfully for the arts Parliament has not depended upon the advice of police inspectors,” Canham sneered. “Plus it was not my lights which caused the fright, but the mercury flash of some still photographer who was doubtless photographing me.” Turning to Holmes, he amended “I am somewhat famous, you understand. Popular magazines often run articles on my productions. But let us focus now on what is important, which is me.”

Holmes is usually allergic to such pretensions – or finds it intolerable in any man save himself – but for this Canham he seemed unusually forbearant of the self-absorption. 

“Please. Go on.” Holmes urged.

“I had already taken a two minute segment of Miss Cecillie Bowden on the stage, and another minute showing the lady in her dressing room. When linked together with titles it makes a full performance, much the same as a singer or acrobat presenting in person, but of much greater social value.”

“Someone killed over this?” Certainly they had not slain Miss Bowden. The lady was not perhaps so famous as an opera diva or the brilliant Sarah Bernhart, but certainly such a death would have excited the newsboys.

“Not her, Dr. Watson.” Lestrade understood the direction of my thoughts. “We check that.”

“Then who?”

“That’s what we don’t know.”

“The moving picture is a difficult craft, and when under the camera drape my attention is fully on what I need to capture. It was only after I had the film developed and was viewing the sequence that I noticed the crime.”

“What crime?”

This crime!” Issac Canham handed over a small paper print. The image was no greater than one inch by one. Half the space was taken by the frontage of the Garlock Theatre and the rest by a plainer building next door. It was, by the sign, the Ferber Hotel. A red ink circle looped around one hotel window.

Holmes riffled one of his infinite drawers of clutter, emerging after some struggle with a large lens in a frame. “You will gain more at magnification.”

There did indeed appear to be an assault showing though the window. Most of a woman’s bodice fell between the frames of glass, although her face was hidden, and above that threatened the downward thrust of a knife. The image was blurry, but the action was distinctive.

“You understand why I took this matter to the police.”

“And we went right out to the room and arrested the man inside.”

“That would be Mr. Clayton Derby ” Sherlock pointed to the second visitor. “He is our official client.”

“Pardon me, sir, if I remark that you seem astoundingly unhampered for a man under arrest.”

“He’s not under arrest, doctor. We had to let him go. No evidence, you see.”

“No evidence?” Holmes made the word a question.

“No knife, not a drop of blood, and guests to either side willing to swear they never heard any hint of a struggle. We had to let him off.”

“Then why are you here?” I asked Derby.

That was a good question, as I considered further. If I had skated a capitol charge, I considered, I should have caught the next ferry to the Continent. That was if I knew myself innocent. If guilty, I should have commissioned a special train and a yacht. Either way I would not be hiring a detective to uncover the matter.

“My wife is not held to such judicious standards, and if she hears about the matter I shall be longing for the peace and safety of the condemned row.” Derby rubbed his hands nervously. “I need you, I need Mr. Holmes, to uncover the truth of this before the newspapers get the story and make my domestic life a living hell.”

“I’ll hire you on as well, to clear my film and get me out from suspicion.”

“Will you take the case?” I asked.

“Of course we are taking the case, Watson. My only quibble is where exactly I shall start.”

∏∫Ó¥ÔÏß≤===========

Step one was to view the cinema in question. So far Holmes and I had seen only the one paper print, and while it was indicative it was – and any image must be – only a moment of time and not time itself. Scotland Yard lacked the required equipment so we went, all gathered in a troop, to Issac Canham’s studio.

It was something of a shabby place on the upper floor of a business building in a lesser but not disreputable street.

Some concession to living had been made, in so far as a worn sofa loaded with a rough blanket occupied one wall, but the greater area was devoted to the man’s art. Much of the equipment was familiar, but not the box holding center court. It was not particularly massive for the space it claimed, being at the extremes two long rods holding metal reels, and to the front a particularly complicated stack of photography lenses. Of greater uniqueness was the electric blub wired into the rear of the device.

“How do you keep the glass plates from shattering?” I presumed it must be glass, as paper would hardly be transparent.

He did not answer, occupied with the work of arranging all the various bits of his machinery.

“They use a different matter, Watson. I have read about the art, but have had no occasion to pursue it, seeing no connection with the study of the criminal. For once – and I say this with great surprise – I have found myself in error.”

“Live as a copper and you’ll start to think every thing can be used to some bad end, Mr. Holmes, and the worst of it is that you’ll always be right.”

Canham looked up from his labors. “Take a seat if you can find one.” 

It was well he added the caveat. Other than the high stool behind the equipment – a perch I assumed was reserved for the operator – the loft boasted only two unmatched chairs and a short bench closer to a footstool. I chose the better of the chairs for Holmes, placing it center before the device.

“No, not there!” Canham made a fanning gesture, as if the wind could move us from his path. “You can’t block the light.”

Holmes moved his chair as directed, and Lestrade put his an equal distance to the other side. Being deprived, I chose to stand.

“Someone seal the drapes.” Canham heaved like a sailor on a hanging rope line.

The blanket proved not one, but rather a sort of canvas sail raised by a bar to hang along the far wall of the room. The side to us had been painted with white lead to increase the reflection.

“If you will cut the gas light, Inspector?”

We obeyed as ordered, and the studio was plunged into utter blackness.

I heard the click of a switch. A bright light glared out of the lens and the entire mechanism stuttered into action.

“Good heavens.” I exclaimed as life-size horses plodded towards us. It was like the wall had vanished and a street, fully occupied with people and animals, had materialized here in our company. 

“Look up at the third window, Mr. Holmes.”

I am sure Sherlock must have done so, for no man present resisted that command.

Before my horrified eyes the exact scene of horror only hinted at by the still image jumped into animation. We watched, helpless observers trapped by time, as the black-sleeved arm rose once and then again, only to rise on each strike in a stain of blood.

I am by no standard a man of week constitution and I have endured the privations of the camp and the terror of battle, but I do not hesitate to say that I have not in this life felt more unmanned than I did that moment, watching some woman be slaughtered before my eyes without even the faint hope that some miracle might intervene for her salvation.

With three final clicks the film ended, leaving us each alone in our darkness.

“I understand now, Mr. Canham. This can not be shown, for no decent soul could endure to watch such a scene of evil.”

“It’s not so bad.” Lestrade countered. “More exciting, really, now that I’ve seen it a few times and can tell myself that what I think I see probably didn’t really happen.”

Holmes was frowning at the strip of film.

“There is a way to fake this?”

“Many ways, Mr. Holmes. The French are something of an expert in double-exposure work. I would not be able to do it here, not and keep the image in such a small area. More, I would not want to do it.”

“Then this is indeed a wondrous new creation. Why, just in these few minutes, Lestrade, I observed seven criminal acts and deduced at least four more. If such cameras were to be placed in every street and the result closely reviewed just think of how many criminals now at large could be apprehended.”

“No, Holmes,” I answered. “Just think also of how many innocent people would be embarrassed. For every severe offense that merits punishment, are there not dozen more that are mere errors to rebuked and let pass? Today the blue-bottle may send the window-washer or coal-snagger on his way with a flea in his ear and a promise of future honestly, and no more need be done of that. He is free to be, as the force says, mean to the mean folk and pleasant to the pleasant, as the neighborhood requires. If every act was subject to the iron eye of a superior think how alien the police officer would grow, seen as a wolf more than the sheppard dog he is now.”

Lestrade shook his head. “I shouldn’t go so far as that, Dr. Watson, but I should agree that I would not want to be overwatched like that. A man has to have his little vices, and if we coppers were required to answer for every man who waters an alley or steals Lucifer from the Indian, we should have no time to take a breath.”

∏∫Ó¥ÔÏß≤===========

Evening found us at the Ferber Hotel, checking in under the guise of a traveler and his valet. I, surprisingly enough, was not the valet. By some means, and here I speculate that it was extreme pettiness and a talent for annoyance, Holmes had managed to secure the same chamber Mr. Clayton Derby had occupied the night before.

The room itself was a good one, set in the most modern style. The bed was large, made up with bleached linen sheets and a wool coverlet. A small table flanked by upholstered armchairs served as a desk and, to the other side sat a dressing room with a cot beside the combination wardrobe.

Holmes was, as one might anticipate, a most dreadful servant. He had left me to unpack what small luggage we had carried while he instead inspected the nap of the carpet and the dust on the curtains and all those other detail of which he alone is the world’s master.

“Interesting.” 

“What?” I was shaking out my shirt, in some conflict as to whether I should send it down to press or if that would betray Sherlock’s character. The prospect that the Great Detective might actually iron a shirt was, I need not say, preposterous.

“Note the slight deformation of the rod, Watson. It is as if some weight had hung upon it.”

I frowned at the metal bar over the window. “Was the woman in the image that high?” I could not imagine that she had been. To lean against that rod one would have to be twelve feet tall or standing on a chair. Murder upon horsehair cushions would be a task for an acrobat, and were there such an Amazon as the first she could hardly have been murdered at all.

“A fair point, Watson. The deformation is interesting, but we must find a different explanation.”

Satisfied with that lack of conclusion Holmes went back to his hunt. I found a hanger and set my shirt up in the bathroom. The steam would ease the wrinkles and spare the need for either of us to apply domestic skills.

On my return Holmes as holding a bit of hair ribbon.

“Mr. Derby is not so innocent as he proclaims. He did have a woman with him last evening, a detail leading me to devalue the veracity of the two sound-sleeping visitors in the rooms to each side.”

“Do you think?” If one had a contrivance to prove oneself innocent, a scheme which relied on Sherlock Holmes acting in error was a twisted bit of conspiracy indeed. I did not consider Mr. Derby worthy of it.

“No.” Holmes smoothed the ribbon around his long fingers. “While Mr. Derby employed the young lady, he offered no more violence than is perhaps inherent in such a transaction. Still, this is a detail that Lestrade missed. It will serve us well to speak to her.”

“That might be difficult.” If Derby had already lied about the matter, I did not think he would be forthcoming now. There was also the high chance that he did not know the woman’s name, had not asked it at the time, and would not remember it now if one had been offered.

“Not so much so. A hotel of this caliber does not encourage such visitors, at least not by the front door. In return, the profession finds ways to – as one might say – come in via the back. Most of the ladies of the profession cultivate the lesser staff to that very purpose.”

Holmes pointed to the house bell. “I suspect that a summons to the bell desk could prove productive.”

“Certainly the manager will not…” I began, aghast at the idea of such a solid appearing man acting as procurer.

“I did say the lesser servants, my dearest Watson. A waiter or hall boy will be fit to our purpose.”

Holmes was right.

It is good that long exposure had killed my blush, or I would not have trusted my performance. Not that I am more a stranger to ladies of the amatory profession than might be any man of my age, but to arrange such a transaction in the sight and hearing of my current affection was a matter less sanguine.

The young lad was more in his element, and with a few questions unsuited to his Sunday School countenance had soon detailed my order and assured a swift delivery.

Twenty minutes later I was opening the door to a young woman in shabby finery.

“Come in.” I stood back, letting her pass. “I am Mr. Smith, and he”, here I indicated Holmes, “is Mr. Jones.”

She was taken aback at that, but rallied with aplomb. “I never agreed to two gentlemen. That will be extra.”

“Here.” Holmes passed her a shilling. “Your name?”

“Dottie Ann Barr”, she answered automatically. 

From her confusion as the question, that cognomen was likely the honorific she had been baptized into.

Here I should describe her, although in so many ways her commonality with the others of her sisterhood renders the details moot in the mind of the general reader. For the record, Dottie Barr was a young woman of at most twenty. She might have passed for older in casual observation by the lines carved by labor and want, but the curve of her eye and chin betrayed more to a trained physician. Her hair was brown, as were her eyes. She was cleaner than expected, bearing no sign of vermin or the diseases of her line. In the street only her dress would have marked her employment, and that merely by the vulgarity of ornament, most of which were bows of yellow ribbon matching the item Holmes had this evening discovered. It was by that last detail that I confirmed we did indeed have the correct witness.

“Miss Barr.” I offered one of the chairs. “Do have a seat.”

“If you want me there.”

“Very much so.”

“Fine with me.” She sat, in the same motion tossing her skirt up to her knees. “Who goes first?”

“You will, Miss Barr.” Holmes answered. “You see, we have brought you here under something of a pretense.”

She sighed, pushing her skirts back to the floor. “If yer gonna preach you still have to pay. No discounts.”

“I should not dream of depriving you of the going rate for your time.” He produced another shilling, holding it in her sight. “I merely request that you indulge me in a short round of question and answer.”

“You got the brass, you can indulge what you like.”

“Excellent.” 

Holmes produced the hair ribbon. From the shift of her eyes it was clear she recognized the token. “I believe you were working in this very room last night? What can you tell us of that evening?”

“Dirty talk, eh?” She steeled back in comfort. “I can do that. ‘So there was this chap. He was a big, dark man, all hairy like with, with this huge red…”

“No, NO!” Holmes objected. “A most dramatic narrative, but not to the point.”

“Why stop her?” I smiled at him. “I was enjoying the performance. It lacked verity, but possessed a certain charm in the imagination.”

“She can perform for you later, if you insist.”

I considered the prospect. She was, if not elegant, still far from hideous. Young, and a healthy girl as well, for all her profession. I had my kit, and within it certain devices that I cautious gentleman it is wise to carry against disease. Once Holmes had his full use of her mind I might find in the rest of her a pleasant distraction.

She must have caught some of my thinking, for she pulled her shawl tighter. “I thought you said you didn’t want it. Can you make up your mind? I’ve rent to earn.”

Holmes indicated that I should step away. “I want you to tell me about last night.”

“I was trying that.”

“Honestly.”

A huff was her only reply.

“Please answer my partner's questions, Miss Barr.” I instructed firmly. “Do so as honestly and with as much detail as you can manage. It will be the better for you.”

She sat straighter. “Why’d you want that?”

Holmes gave her the ribbon. “We are assisting the police.” 

“Not like that!” I caught her half way to the door. “Please, we mean you no harm and no inconvenience. We are looking for a young woman – perhaps one known to you – who might have been injured last night in this vicinity. We were hoping you had seen something of her.”

She stepped away, cautious as a drenched cat. “But you’re not arresting no one?”

“One bad man, perhaps, but no one more. Certainly none of the ladies of the area.”

“Fancy that.” She sat hard on the bed. “A copper not arresting girls.”

“So.” Holmes reclaimed the floor. “You were in this room last night?”

“Ye’ve proved that on me.”

“With whom?”

That earned a laugh. “Your brother, governor. Another Mr. Jones, he was.”

Only to be expected, I allowed. “I expect you know the whole family.”

“All the Mr. Smiths as well.” She agreed. “Seems none but those gents every stay in this hotel.”

“Would you describe him, this particular Mr. Jones you met here last night?

“Blond feller about so high.” She held her hand a few inches over her head. “Blue eyes. Silly bit of hair on his lip.”

That did sound like Mr. Derby. I did not wish to use his name, not in the current circumstances, but I trusted Holmes to read my thoughts from my face. In my own way, I could see his thoughts follow mine.

“When?” he asked the girl.

“What?”

“When did you come up to the room?”

“Bit later than this? Maybe around nine, or a quarter after? I’ve no watch, but I’m fairly certain I heard the clock bells just before I came up.”

“And you stayed?”

“Until maybe eleven. The theater next door gets out around then.”

“Two hours.” Holmes considered. “A long visit.”

“Not all of that working. No more of that than the usual, but well, this room has a bathroom attached. He let me use it.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.” The wrinkle of her nose stated more than words that a shared bath was no treat.

“So you can not say if the gentleman stayed the entire time?”

She gave the answer some thought. “Not to swear, but I think I would have heard the door. I’ve good ears.”

“You heard nothing out of the ordinary? No disruption?”

She shrugged. “I heard the some fool shouting his head off down in the street when I took down the drape. I could see someone thumping him. Rude bugger.”

“The drape?”

This even I knew was a clue. The drape was on the bent rod over the very window where our crime had been captured.

“More like a wool cape what the gentleman had. The shouting fool what I told you of had set up electric torches in the street. Lit up the place something awful, even past the hangings. That night’s Mr. Jones worried that someone would see in, even this far up, so he hung his cape over the rod to block the view.”

“Excellent.” Holmes produced a pound note. “You have given more satisfaction this night than most.”

“That all?” Her glance moved from Holmes, to me, and back to Holmes again. “I feel a bit off, taking your money and not working. Honest girl, I am.”

I checked with Holmes. He is a man of wide horizons and does allow me my divergent tastes. I did not often indulge in harlotry, but as she had already been paid, and paid above rate, I considered that some service might be due.

“If you would have no objection?” My question was not to her, although she may have taken it as such.

She fell backwards, hiking up her skirts to the business range of her anatomy.

Her fanny was fresh looking and without signs of illness. Not that I deferred the use of the lambskin. I am a medical man, and not in doubt of infectious theory. It was an easy moment to open my trousers and get to work.

She grunted a bit at my entry, but took it well.

I gripped her hips, one leg on the mattress to grant me better leverage. It was animal pleasure to feel her body clench as I took my use of her heat.

“He’s not going to join?” One arm flopped towards Holmes who had taken her place in the chair.

“He observes.” I put out the words between strokes. “It is his favorite indulgence.”

∏∫Ó¥ÔÏß≤===========

“Off your game, my dear Watson.” Holmes twitted me as we lay together in the late night. “You shall have to cut back on cream cakes.”

This was merely Holmes in his humor, for I knew I had acquitted myself well enough. The girl would have no cause to gossip about strange chastity in a pair of men. He had found the tableau inspiring, for his fingers were moving down my spine even as he spoke.

“She was not particularly talented. I shall give a better performance tomorrow night.”

I rolled into the pillow, offering my own warmth for his comfort. 

He accepted, his long fingers preparing me tenderly so my flesh could welcome his passion.

“Wisely said, my dear Watson.” His kiss was a whisper over my ear. “The Divo is always at his best with a familiar accompanist.” He played a glissando along my nerves.

I moaned, the madness of bliss tearing at me. “Say rather a brilliant Maestro to make a bicinum.”

∏∫Ó¥ÔÏß≤===========

“Good morning, Sergeant Leeds.” My cheerful halloo was as much warning as greeting.

Holmes nodded, but did not stop his perusal of the desk book that he had appropriated in the officer’s absence.

“We don’t allow strange gentlemen back here.”

I intercepted the man, holding out my hand. “I would deny the charge of oddity, but Scotland Yard itself would give evidence against. This is Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective. We have an introduction from Inspector Lestrade.”

I had some sorrow in so imposing my borrowed authority, for by my view the station office was an orderly space, each detail speaking well of the man’s attention to duty.

“Then you must be Doctor Watson.” He straightened, puffed a bit at the acquaintance. “I suppose we shall have to welcome you if the yard does, but I can’t imagine what a little local office like this can offer.”

“A cup of tea?” 

“That we have, doctor.”

“Thank you.” 

My appreciation was sincere. Holmes had risen at dawn, and then refused to leave the room for two hours while he experimented with various subtle adjustments of the draperies. Surely that insight would be appreciated later, but for an Englishman condemned to rise without even a cup of the brown warmth, that time of appreciation was slated for much later.

“Have you a murder in the last day?” Holmes slammed the book. “No, of course you have not. You would have reported that.”

“I should think I would, Mr. Holmes!”

“Let us take it more subtlety then. Are there any missing whores?”

“Mr. Holmes”, he growled. “We wouldn’t…”

“This is a police force of men, so I take as given that you most definitely would. The question is, which of the working girls was not, in fact, seen working last night.”

He slumped a bit, caught on the point. “We don’t keep track that close. They do come and go like, and they only come in here when we go out and get them, if you take my meaning.”

“You only do that when the shopkeepers complain and your superiors press you. Take no offense, for I agree with the policy. The ranks of the brass buttons are often thin, and your civil energies are better spent on criminal matters.”

“If you’re putting it that way I’d not disagree.”

“Still, your men are not blind.” I ventured a more jovial tone.” It’s no crime to notice a pretty face.”

“As you say, Doctor.”

Sherlock picked up. “A man with functional memory would tend recall which faces appeared frequently, and perhaps note when a particular face did not. Would you agree with that, Sergeant?”

“One could hardly argue against the truth.”

“Gather your men and ask which face was seen on Cleander High Street last night, and not this morning.”

That last command was superfluous, as the three lesser officers of the station had assembled of their own will, drawn by the lure of new visitors and their Sergeant’s distraction.

“East or west sir.” One of the younger men, a black Scot sort with a freckled face, spoke up.

“Excuse me?”

“You see, Mr. Holmes, the locals are organized on what you might call civic lines. The east side of the street are Spinnit Lane and the west hail from Teasler Court, ”

“They do not cross over?”

“Lose her hair in a minute, the pushin biddy would.”

“Interesting, Watson. I shall have to write a paper someday on just how deep and enduring the history of the mercantile guilds has marked even modern Londoner.” Returning his attention to the new informer, he directed, “The western side. Women who work the hotels on these four blocks.”

“Then that’s Irish Meg, and Susie Tailor and her sister Alice, and little Sarah Ann and her mother Emma Cuttle now she’s out of darbies again, and then up a bit there would be Black Susie and Nora the seamstress.”

“None of them in a bit of trouble last night” the Sergeant interjected. “I’d swear to that.”

“Don’t be forgettin’ Two-Gin Gertie and Old Lynn, sir.”

“Took Gertie up about midnight, and Lynn rolled in after three. Neither of them’s the indoor type, if you take my meaning.”

I did, and knew Sherlock did as well. Such vagrants were a sad spectacle in the lesser alleys, although to call them whore was to attribute to the class more ambition and labor than was like to be uncovered. Their nighttime presence, if not healthy than at minimum not bleeding, excluded them from relevance in this matter.

“That’s not a large crew.” Sherlock considered,

“Things are pretty quiet down here, what with the big house I’m not to know about just off of Cleveley.”

“Uh, Sergeant?” Another of the young policemen spoke up. This one was a towhead of raw country mold.

“Yes, Dobbis?” his superior barked.

“There’s Fancy Mike, sir. He wasn’t by this morning, and I saw him go up lane last night.”

“Was he with a gentleman?” Sherlock asked.

The young man ducked his head.

“It’s Fancy Mike, Mr. Holmes. Take as given that he’s always with a man of some sort.”

“Just how fancy is this gentleman?”

“Oh, he’s a regular Stella, he is. Not a brawler on his own, so we don’t much bring him in, but we know him from his raising trouble with others.”

Holmes addressed Dobbis. “Could you describe this ‘Fancy Mike’?”

“Not for today, sir. Sometimes he’s a red head, sometimes a blonde, depending on what matches his dress, you see. Even had a black wig once, but I think he lost that in the Clacky Tavern raid.”

“And last night?”

Dobbis scratched his hairless chin. “Well, I didn’t see under the hat but he was wearing green so I’d go with the red hair.”

“Thank you, Officer Dobbis. You’ve been most helpful.”

Holmes strode out of the station, I hurrying behind.

“You look like a man with a theory.”

“Come, Watson, you know that I never speculate until I have received all the facts.”

∏∫Ó¥ÔÏß≤===========

“Back home for now, Watson.” 

“Why, Holmes?”

“To analyze the results of my mornings experiments.” 

We linked hands as we strolled. Discovery always fills him with good cheer.

“There is a unique factor of strong light, one which I witness as we went to Issac Canham’s studio and again in those morning exertions you so bemoaned. When the morning sun first rose over the street, shining westward at a low angle, I found certain windows on the other side turned reflective.”

“Why have I never noticed this?”

“Because it does not happen universally, Watson. Most curtains are lined in white or muslin, inexpensive fabrics being sufficient for the purpose, and so the light from within overwhelms the light from the outside. Only when the light from the outside is very strong, such as in a clear dawn, and when also the window is blocked within by a very dark shade, can the reflection be near perfect.”

“It was not dawn. “ I gave the point deeper consideration. “The bright light you think of must have been from Canham’s electrical lamps.”

“Precisely, Watson.”

“The dark shade was Clayton Derby’s wool cape.”

“You did not note when he first came to Baker Street, unlike many travelling capes his was lined in black.”

“So despite what we saw – what we perceived ourselves as seeing – in fact the crime was committed somewhere on the west side of the street, and not in Derby’s room at all.”

“You please me. Watson. That is exactly the facts we face.” Holmes scanned the road, looking for a taxicab. “I need to find my sextant a do a bit of trigonometry.”

Unfortunately for my hope of breakfast we never made it back to Baker Street, for in hunting a cab Holmes spotted a different sort of angle.

“Interesting company.”

“Do you recognize her?”

For myself I saw nothing untoward in the well-dressed woman of middle years, but I knew Holmes and his perception exceeded my own as the sun does the rising moon.

We were stopped on the sunny side of Cleander High Street, directly opposite from last night’s hotel. Evidently the building on this side as a hotel as well, although one of lesser display. From where we stood I could see though the open doors into a narrow lobby, a mere hall holding a registration counter. What spare space remained hosted a row of chairs and a few fading plants.

“I recognize him”, Holmes amended, pointing out a heavy-set man in well-tailored black. “Robert Irdale is one of the most prominent divorce lawyers in London, a solicitor in more sense than one. It is an anonymous sort of fame, you understand. One would not prosper if one were so known to the general rabble, but if one wishes to part from a spouse and does not object to parting from a great deal of gold along with the bargain, Mr. Irdale is your man.”

“A foe of yours?” Holmes had interesting views on cozening judges, and I was never certain which side he might support in such matters.

“He is a profiteer of other men’s secrets, for all that he sometimes gives a benefit for his extortions. I would not aim at the man, but he is putting himself where I might find a target.”

“I’m looking for my husband.” we heard as we drew near the pair. The lady was not addressing us but rather the unfortunate clerk finishing his duties as night receptionist.

“You know I can’t answer you, Miss…”

“Mrs.” The woman snapped. “Mrs. Eric Tilford. You best stop concealing his whereabouts if you know what it good for you. I know he was here last night, and I’m suspicious he was here with another woman, and I want to know where he is now.”

“If he’s not in his room I can’t say,” the poor man answered. “We don’t keep our guests on leashes like dogs.”

“Dog is right!” 

“Bitch more like”, I whispered to Holmes.

“Irdale.” Holmes raised his hat.

“Mr. Holmes,” Irdale answered.

“Is he one of your detectives?” The lady did not sound impressed.

“Mr. Holmes is **a** detective. One might call him England’s best – or at least most famous.”

“So have him find my husband.”

Again I whispered. “Is he missing, or is the word rather escaped?”

Holmes, however, had found a fresh target. “Irdale. Do not tell me you have lost a client. I mean, other than to justice.”

“We came expecting to find Eric Tilford, but he does not respond to his door and the desk clerk is being inconveniently silent.”

The lady turned on him like a terrier. “I have proof my husband came here last night. I have a photograph.”

“Interesting”, Holmes allowed. “Might I see?”

I have seen patients swallow cod liver oil with less puckering than Mr. Irdale. “I’m quite certain that your good reputation can only support Mrs. Tilford, so long as that interest is not as his opposing representative.”

“I have never spoken a word to the man, and as you well know I do not traffic in such uncriminal forms of criminal conspiracy.”

“Then let him see the image, Mrs. Tilford.”

The image was a blurred mess – little more than the face of the man in question and the outline of a woman’s hat and hair sketched on the other side. The blame, I suspected, fell less on the incompetence of the camera operator and more on the unexpected lighting brought in play by our first client – Mr. Canham.

“Why are we bothering with this, Holmes?” 

“Details, Watson,” he whispered back. “We are seeking a man who we suspect was keeping company of light virtue. They are seeking a specific man who they know, by prearrangement, sought such company. I am no believer in fate but sometimes coincidence is a positive blessing.”

“You see our proof, Mr. Holmes. Our trouble is that Mr. Tilford is not here, as we had ar… that is… as we anticipated he would be.”

“Based only on a knowledge of his habits and character, given that collusion in a divorce case is quite forbidden by the court.”

“Please, Mr. Holmes. It is hardly unnatural for a husband to inform his wife of his travels, even up to telegraphing once he had chosen a particular hotel. How is the husband to know of his wife’s suspicions, or that she might take that information to a sympathetic and effective solicitor? It is as the police so often warn, what a man says carelessly can later be brought against him in the docket.”

“So in this purely theoretical telegraph, Mrs. Tilford, might your husband also have mentioned which room he was in?”

“Yes,” She answered. “Room number eight on the third floor.”

“You have excellent information.”

“A good wife is an attentive wife, would you not agree, Mr. Holmes.”

“I can think of a hundred men who would wish their wives less interested in their doings, Mrs. Tilford, but in this case I grant it will make matters easier.”

Holmes offered her his arm. “I can not imagine that a hotel would refuse a wife entry to her husband's residence. After you.”

“So you are with us, Holmes?”

“At least until we find Mr. Tilford. I have questions of my own that I wish to ask the man.”

We headed up the stairs.

There were some frowns from the doorman, and more from the desk, but this was the sort of hotel that would allow Robert Irdale to set up a divorce proceedings within the walls, so their standards were none too particular.

∏∫Ó¥ÔÏß≤===========

“Is this your husband’s luggage?” 

“Monogrammed.” She answered.

“Why so it is.” Holmes seemed delighted at the discovery, although it held no value I could see. 

Pulling me away from the lady and her lawyer, he whispered. “Let us consider what else the room offers to deduction. Mr. Tilford’s jacket is on the hook, but no hat or coat. What strange event, I wonder, could send a respectable man out on the street in his shirtsleeves?”

“I can think only of fire, or of some similar disaster, but of these there is no evidence.”

The room was not in particularly good order. The counterpane was off center on the bed, and one of the pillows rested on the carpet. At the window one of the drapes had been looped back and the other pulled to the center. At the same time the space was not to any unique degree disorderly. None of the furniture was broken and the carpet showed no more stains than could be accounted for by time, budget, and slovenly housekeepers. On desk rested a tin tray with the remnant of beef and potatoes covered by a napkin. To its company rested a wine bottle, cork missing, and two glasses of common press, one wine and one water. It reminded me of my own bachelor quarters in the days before I met Holmes.

“Yet there is evidence of disaster, if not the natural sort. Look here!” Holmes knelt by the bed, and from a single visible thread he pulled out an entire garment.

“A green dress, Watson, and one badly ruined.”

He handed it to me. The bodice was a shred along the left side, slashed in three great tears from bust to waist. There and below, from waist to hem, ran streaks of black/brown stain.

“Blood?”

“I shall test it, but I do not doubt it.”

Passing to the window Holmes held the ruined silk to his chest. Ignoring the difference in form, I could see the light outline the same shape as the moving picture revealed.

“We must call Lestrade.”

“Holmes!” Irdale had pacified Mrs. Tilford, and no longer occupied had spotted our movements.

“There!” Mrs. Tilford had also found a point of interest. “Look at the picture! Look at that hussy my husband was with! It is the same dress. That is proof that he has been betraying me.”

Her smile was brilliant, and given solely to Irdale. “Now can you get me my divorce?”

∏∫Ó¥ÔÏß≤===========

Of the next minutes mine were the only sensible actions, and those were to reclaim the evidence and to send the hall boy for the police. This I say not to condemn Holmes, who I am sure would have been of an equal mind had he not fallen to the combined nattering of both Robert Irdale and his shrew of a client. Thus I summoned the sergeant, and he in turn sent for our good friend Inspector Lestrade.

Sergeant Leeds had proved equally gifted with the uncommon facility of common sense and had herded the hysteria off to the side while we worked.

Each piece of furniture, from the chairs to each of the drawers in the chiffonier were subject to close inspection and a report made as to any marks of relevance. Once reviewed, each was removed by a pair of officers so the carpet below could be likewise interrogated. It was a most though and a most professional undertaking, increasing my already high regard for the local office.

At length all had been removed except for the bed.

Sergeant Leeds suggested that Irdale take his client to the hallway.

Holmes objected, but the senior officer would not be moved. “I will not ask a gentle woman to look at the sheets.”

I agreed. “I think she would prefer to avoid that.”

If we anticipated different objections? It was not my place to instruct the law.

Breathing deep, he flipped back the coverlet.

I was shocked.

The sheets were not stained, or perhaps some main part of it had been but who could tell? The greater part was missing, only the thick top and bottom hems remaining with torn edges to show where the rest of the fabric had been.

“Interesting,” Holmes commented. “Help me turn the mattress, Watson.”

With Leeds help we did so. 

“Holmes!” I dropped my corner.

The mattress slid off the frame with a thump.

“AAAHHHH!” The scream came from Mrs. Tilford, but none of us would have thought it unmanly had we done as much. Below the mattress, tucked in among the metal coils of the box spring, lay our missing man.

“Eric!” Mrs. Tilford rushed from the doorway. “Oh my God it’s Eric!”

Holmes bowed to the lady.

“It would appear that a divorce is superfluous. You are a widow.”

The Sergeant rocked back on his heels. “Now doesn’t that put a turn on things.”

“I did not do this. I was in company all last night.” Her desperate reach told, without words, just what company. 

Robert Irdale backed away, his hands raised. “I am not involved, I tell you, Mr. Holmes.” 

“Perhaps, but the police will need your both statements.”

“Oh god”, he shuddered. “This could ruin me.”

∏∫Ó¥ÔÏß≤===========

“Was she your killer? Mrs. Tilford, I mean.” I asked as Holmes rushed me out of the hotel. “I can understand a jealous revenge, but she hardly could find it unexpected if she arranged the rendezvous? There is motive, perhaps, but I can not see the action. Why would she have him put on the green dress? Why would he let her wear his jacket? 

To the pepper of my questions Holmes made no reply, pulling me around in his mad rush to where I did not know.

I balked, feet hard set on sidewalk.

“What happened to the original visitor?” 

“Think, Watson, and answer your own question.”

“Perhaps she was simply paid and left?” It seemed too commonplace, but the common is just that.

“Without her dress?”

“The missing coat!" I ejaculated. “She took that to cover her ruined bodice and left in her petticoats. The sheet was bandages, or to make an apron over the bloodstains.”

“Now you begin to understand.”

“You are hunting her.”

“Him.”

“Him?” That was a send-up.

“Fancy Mike, the owner of the green dress. He is our next concern, and one that will not wait.” Homes pulled me into motion, seeking the mews behind Spinet Lane.

“Why this side, Holmes?”

Sergeant Leeds said the two streets do not socialize, and I anticipate that young Michael would shun past acquaintance while on the stroll.” His hawk eyes searched the pile of polyglot apartments, spotting one.

“Quickly, Watson. We have perhaps half an hour before I shall have to go to Lestrade and prove Mrs. Tillford innocent. After that the competent police will start looking for the other character involved, and if the matters stand as I have derived I would much prefer he was no where to be found.”

∏∫Ó¥ÔÏß≤===========

Homes came to a stop before one obscure apartment. “Bloody rags, Watson.” He directed me to a line of wet cloths strung from a window. “Someone is injured in his place.”

He would have knocked, but before fist touched door the portal swung open. A gray haired matron bared the way.

“You’ll not take my son. I’ll swear it was me, that I will. Swear the book before any court in England.”

“Please, madam. I leave courts to the judges, of whose company I am not. I am merely here to speak to your son, and to resolve my own mind about certain matters.”

“I beg you trust him, for he is the best hope you have.” Hope of what I could not say, but that Homes had not brought Lestrade along meant he had some special knowledge and some plan which did not involve calling the Black Maria. “At the least, do invite us in before the neighbors note and take the run of matters away from both of us.”

This last proved persuasive; as for all the poverty of the domicile she was by heart and custom a respectable woman.

As we entered I spotted a fair young man lying on a narrow cot. His chest was bare, exposing to my study three long gashes. They were bloody, but from the evenness of his breathing not deep.

Opening my kit I set to dressing his wounds.

“Fancy Mike, I presume?” Holmes stood well back from my labors.

“Michael Crosgrove when I’m here.”

“Then I am Sherlock Holmes. You know my companion by his skills. Doctor Watson.”

“Pleased, sir. Well, not really. I know what you’re here for, and I won’t cause a fuss.”

“You are confessing?”

“No sense lying to you, is it?” He tried to rise. “I never meant to kill him, Mr. Holmes.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “You went along in good faith, but you were not what he wanted.”

“Turns out you’re right.”

“What you could not know was that he was false form the start. What he wanted was not what he said he wanted.”

“Figured that soon enough. Or maybe not soon enough, but right soon as we got to his room. He got a handful of what weren’t crinkum-crankum and suddenly he was raving.”

“A hazard of flirting in dim light.” 

In my way I sympathized, just not much. More than one soldier had found himself surprised by an ill-chosen companion, but sensible ones either accepted their chance or gave the nomus and toddled. Yelling simply attracted attention, and then the poor sod suffered both blue balls and the mockery of his comrades.

“Unknown to you your supposed dab was also keeping a secret identity, that of a straying husband. The plan had been for the two of your to be caught adulterously, but once he discovered your nature? “Holmes smiled a thin, sad smile. “Being caught with you would be more than his reputation would survive.”

“I was wondering.”

“What I need to learn now, from you, is what actually happened in that room.”

“Not much, Mr. Holmes. It was quick, you see.” Michael Crosgrove took a shallow breath. “There was a tray nearby. I think he’d had dinner before I came up. He grabbed the knife. If it hadn’t been for my corset pads I’d be a dead man.”

“So you struck him? With what?”

“Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I would have, but there was nothing to hand. I tried to shout out the window but it was stuck. He stabbed me twice hard in the corset pad, and when I turned once more in the side. He’d have done more, but in mid-strike he got this sort of purple look to him, like his face was frozen and burnt at the same time. Then he just… fell down.”

“You still did not call for help?”

“I think I’d run as mad as him, Mr. Holmes. I hid him under the mattress, took his hat and coat, stripped to me trousers, and I ran. Don’t know why. I knew I was a dead man from the first blow. Just… a coward, I guess. The gallows are hard to face.”

Homes looked the man hard in the face, seeing as other men do not.

“I do not hold you guilty, but an English jury is unlikely to be so sympathetic.

Taking up the bible, the one paper object in the room, he jotted a line on the inner leaf.

“There is a Captain I know, one who has depended upon the good will of others in his time. Take this message to him. His ship is scheduled to leave on Monday, but he’ll break the Sabbath for good cause. He is bound for Brazil. You can work your passage.” Homes tucked the pencil back in his jacket.

The old woman was already packing.

I set the last plaster on Crosgrove’s chest. “If you have further family, write them that you travel upon a doctor’s advice. I think that the clime there will be far better for your health.”

∏∫Ó¥ÔÏß≤===========

“Inspector Lestrade.” Our favorite minion was present when we reached Cleander High Street station. He had the harried look that comes with overexposure to Sherlock Holmes.

“Dr. Watson. Might I hope you include headache powders in your equipage?”

I mixed a packet. It is good to be confirmed in ones diagnosis.

He swallowed the whole in three gulps.

“Holmes. I have no time for overwrought artists, so whatever you have come to say about Canham and Derby must wait.”

“Some quarter of the hour, at least.” Holmes strode to the back room, not at all abashed. "I have another client, it seems. Mrs. Tilford. The widow. She is innocent.”

As Mrs. Tilford was also in the room – indeed the entire company from our hotel adventure was so assembled – this picked up her spirits considerably.

The same joy I will not impose on Lestrade.

“Kind of you to tell us that. Would you care to also tell us why?”

“If you will all come back to the hotel I will show you. I have sent a summons for Canham and Derby as well, as they each had their part in the story.”

“Very well, Holmes. With the warning that should this prove another of your mad starts I shall see you banned from the crime library for a month.”

That last would have been a fearful threat had there been the slightest chance of it’s imposition. At some gift of fund (for which my suspicion fell upon Mycroft Holmes) the Yard had created a privy reserve of past evidence, quickly christened the Crime Library. Holmes was, in some angle of the matter, both the establishments’ first patron and prime librarian. Much of the collection came from his acquisition, and more was catalogued by his hand.

As ever with Holmes, compliance was inevitable. With much confusion but little delay we were, all in a troop, marched down the street and settled back in room eight, third floor, Edgerton Hotel.

The bed had been stripped. I praised this for the peace it granted those of tender stomach as much as the room it granted the company. That last was a thing of note, for we were a mightily gathering: myself and Holmes; Lestrade and Sergeant Leeds to uphold the power of law; Robert Irdale to restrain that hand so far as it would touch his client, the now-widow Tilford; Issac Canham summoned by Holmes for the solution for his own interest; Clayton Derby invited for courtesy, because one does not speak with half a case in the absence of the other quitrent, and the manager of the hotel in court with several of his servitors. The last were officially present to fetch and carry, but to my mind served more in the manner of a musical chorus, providing an audience to the main performers.

“Holmes!” Lestrade snapped, “Whom shall I arrest?”

“None of them Lestrade. We once, for a miracle, stand in a company of completely innocent men.“ 

Mrs. Tillford gasped.

“The lady as well, and I beg your pardon for the exclusion.”

“Then what the devil are bothering here for? The lady will pardon my language.” Lestrade pulled a dotted kerchief from his sleeve to mop his forehead. “My job is catching murderers, not taking tea.”

“Again you err, and tea would serve you well.”

“I shall start with Mr. Canham, since he had claim by primogeniture to this mystery, being in some sense the father of our confusion.”

Sherlock quickly recounted the start of our adventure, including the observations of the window.

Canham, likewise holding a mastery of light, lens, and prism, greeting the new information with delight. “To take a movie of a mirror? Of a glass that is yet a mirror? What a brilliant innovation! I envision a thousand effects, each more special than the other. Indeed I shall name it that – Special Effects.”

“Oh my!” Mrs. Tilford’s hand was at her throat. “You mean that once one is cinemaed an entire audience can watch one’s doings?”

“Indeed they can and, now that Holmes has declared there is no murder in the frame, they will!”

”Fancy that. Eric on the stage.”

“I shall title this Passion at the Paramount. Mystery! Danger! Scandal! Every vaudeville theatre in London will clamor to show it!”

“But this hotel is the Edgerton.”

“You won’t let me use the real name, I imagine?”

The hotel manager puffed like a pigeon. “I should say not!”

“Then the Paramount it shall be. Reads as more dramatic.”

“You must send me tickets, Mr. Canham.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Tilford. Front row opening night.”

Clutching my partner’s shoulders, the movie man kissed him soundly on both cheeks. One. Two Three. “You have made my career, Mr. Holmes.”

“My wife will kill me,” Derby plained.

“Nonsense. You shall simply take her to the show, and she will be flattered to have even the smallest part in the production. After all, it is mere chance that your room was the mirror, and nothing of your actions within appears at all.”

“Brilliant, Mr. Canham, and so true. We shall dine out on this story the rest of the year. She shall think me the best husband in all of England for bringing her such fame with her tea circle.”

So resolved, Mr. Canham and Mr. Derby took their leave, each in total charity with the world.

Holmes turned his attention to the not-so-honorable Robert Irdale. “I will pretend to not know that you set this event in motion if you will disclose why you did not rely on your usual doxies.”

“The court was getting suspicious. Too many actions with the same co-respondents.”

“So the departed Mr. Tilford did his own work.”

“Dr. Watson? Not to answer, but if I asked you the chance a man could find a whore in London?”

“Three to the shilling, and a penny’s change for that.” 

Which answered nothing and much. Irdale may have formed conspiracy in law, but in common fact had done no more than if he had suggested Tilford pick up his own mail or his own hat. 

Irdale turned to Lestrade. “I do not want this to ruin the lady.”

“Or yourself.”

“I will not deny that I would be damaged, but less than the more innocent.”

“Why should I believe Mrs. Tilford is innocent? Because she says so? I’ve arrested many an unhappy wife found standing over a dead husband.” 

“Mrs. Tilford held the money in her family. She had no cause to harm an unwanted husband who was more than eager to depart.”

Lestrange glowered down at the Tilford woman. “Suppose I speculated that Mr. Tilford changed his mind about giving up the marriage. You confronted him and in a rage, killed him.”

“I was in Chelsea in the company of Mr. Irdale all of last night.”

That sent up my eyebrow. “Comfort to the widow?”

“Delivered slightly prematurely.” Irdale’s lip quirked in concession to the irony.

“Believe her because she is a short woman, Lestrade. Look at her now. The window ledge is barely below her shoulder, not mid-chest as it was on our green-dress visitor.”

“I did not kill my husband, Inspector. I might have arranged to find him with another woman but that was all.”

“That was all this was? Just a conspiracy to conspiracy, and nothing more?”

“Nothing more at first, Inspector.” Holmes reclaimed command. “Let us take up matters at the point where Mr. Tilford has begun his evening. He checks into the hotel.” Looking to the manager, he asked. “What time was that, would you say?”

“I have the book, Mr. Holmes. He signed at quarter before nine.”

“Tilford comes up but does not unpack more than his shaving kit. We have his luggage as witness to that.”

“Some sense there, Mr. Holmes, if’n he expected to be discovered in the morning. No man's wanting his pants lost as well as down.”

“You learn, Inspector. Excellent.”

“He orders a dinner. We have the proof of that in the tray.”

“By the stroke of ten we may imagine him back on the street in search of an evenings companion. Here is where we must speculate, although we conjecture upon logic. Unlike the world Mr. Tilford knows that whichever companion he selects this evening will return in later weeks before the bench. He must pick carefully. He does not want a low person, a bunter or hedge. Beyond the humiliation there is the risk that the jury will laugh away such an injury, and the whole court business come to naught.”

Around the room multiple heads nodded agreement.

“By the same logic he dare not aim too high. To pick a seamstress or shop-girl might result in outraged denials on the witness stand as the girl upheld her reputation at the minor cost of perjury. He might even face his own charge, one for defamation, if he persisted in his summons. Plus, he risks his wife suspecting actual adultery, which would hone a fresh blade for an already sharp proceeding.”

“Tilford needs to walk a middle ground, and he does so literally. There is nothing for him in the cafes where he first looks. This is too prosperous a district, and the young ladies head to the theatre in flocks like hens. There are drinking dens in the alley behind, but these are distasteful and he leaves quickly. At the point of despair, fortune smiles. He finds young lady in green standing in the round-a-bout. She is clearly prosperous, to judge by her silk dress, but surprisingly open to the flirt of an amateur masher. After a few moments conversation they head back to his hotel.”

“What time did they come in?” Holmes asked the hotel man. “Do you recall?”

“Not so precisely, Mr. Holmes. Better business to stay vague, do you understand. I should say ten thirty, or a hand of minutes to either side.”

“There is some conversation, some banter back and forth. This Tilford anticipates, dealing with a lady he must seduce. He wants her to undress. She demurs, for all her other willingness. He presses the point, after a time by force, and that is when Tilford makes his discovery.”

“Yes?” Lestrade asks.

“Tilford’s maiden is a Miss Molly.”

“Buggerall.”

“Precisely.” Holmes addressed company. “I will assume that Mr. Tilford was not in the habit – the custom, one might say – of procuring ladies of the evening.”

Mrs. Tilford twisted uncomfortably.

“It is not unheard of for inexperienced men to mistake their target.”

“I’d agree to that, Holmes. Heavens, the stories I could tell you about Kabul, were it not improper for a lady to hear, and there was worse in Kandahar. The Colonel had more problems with that, back with the 66th, than he did with thieving and drunkenness combined.”

Holmes moves to the window. “Tilford is in a conniption. Discovery now would be a disaster, and he had no way to know that his wife has, for her other occupations, put off the great revelation until morning. He shouts. He screams. He panics. He grabs a knife.”

“We found a knife under his body.” Sergeant Leeds produces the evidence.

“Fine work, Sergeant. That is the knife of the movie. Note the smooth metal handle and no bar above the blade. A dinner knife.”

The manage bent for a close look. “That is one of ours, Inspector. The handle is stamped.”

Lestrade tapped the blade. “Very sharp.”

“We like it so. The beef might not be so tender as a guest might hope, and a sharp knife helps them from noticing.”

“Dr. Watson. You inspected the body. Was there any injury from a knife?” This formal address summoned me in my profession.

“Not one cut on the man, save here at the bottom of the palm.” I demonstrated on my own hand, miming with my finger a wound on the lower curve of a fist.

“Attackers wound.” Lestrade imitated the clutch of a blade on the downward stroke.

“Three blows though the bodice, blows that should have been fatal save that the target was hard corseted and well padded.” Holmes indicated each opening on the dress. “For all Tilford’s mad exertions, his victim did not fall.”

“So this Molly killed Tilford?”

“So many years of instruction and you retain nothing. Did you see any wounds or bruises, and broken bones or signs of hard blows?”

“Subject to the police surgeon”, I intervened, “I diagnose that Mr. Tilford died from a fit of Conniption, an apoplexy of the heart bought on by his own rage and unexpected exertion.”

“A natural death?” Irdale questioned, hope hidden behind his words.

“Natural death in unnatural circumstances. It happens.”

“So I am honestly a widow after all?”

“Inspector Lestrade.” Irdale moved back to his client. “You can not let this story to the papers. The scandal would be unspeakable.”

“Murder is bad enough, but a Molly is too far. They’d shut down my hotel, Inspector.”

“You might find Miss Green Dress and make a conviction of it, but would that be justice?” I speculated. “The tabloids would not be kind.”

“I think the Sergeant can go back to his station. This is rather above his level.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

“I caution you that no one will thank you if any unauthorized stories were to reach the more vulgar press agents.”

No sir, Inspector. Grave of confidence, that’s me and me men.”

“Very well. I don’t need headlines with Holmes against me.” Lestrade pulled out his notebook. “Let the record presume that he assaulted a lady, and that she defended herself with force. His heart gave out.”

“A tragedy, but those who dabble in lies often find that their deceit turns on them, is that not true Mrs. Tilford?”

“I never intended harm, Mr. Holmes.”

“No one ever does.” 

***FINIS DOYLE GRATIA***

 

∏∫Ó¥ÔÏß≤===========

Quaint fact: A bicinum is a duet for student and teacher. Isn’t that just a lovely word?

©KKR 2015


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